


A Handful of Cards

by Ralkana



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Backstory, Fix-It, Joss Whedon is too, M/M, Nick Fury is a Bastard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-05
Updated: 2012-09-05
Packaged: 2017-11-13 14:33:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/504515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ralkana/pseuds/Ralkana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The cards are rare, and they're -- they <i>were</i> -- in good condition, and that made them worth some money. But the value they've lost has nothing to do with dollars and cents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Handful of Cards

**Author's Note:**

> **SPOILERS FOR THE MOVIE.**
> 
> Couple of swear words. Not sure if it's enough to up the rating. Let me know if you think otherwise.

 

The room is empty now, and Phil is by himself, surrounded only by the whirs and beeps of the monitors and the machines. The others are off bon-voyaging Thor. Most likely back to Asgard, nobody will tell him, and he can't bring himself to care just yet. He trusts Thor, and as long as Loki and the tesseract are far away from Phil and Clint, he's satisfied. For now. He's pretty sure that will change when he's off the good drugs.

The pain is getting worse, and that probably means it's time for another dose, but he hopes he has a little while yet. The pain is bad, but it means his mind is just a little bit clearer.

His gaze falls on the cards in his lap, and he sighs. They'd been in a sad little pile on his bedside table when he woke up, no apology and no explanation. He doesn't expect the first, and he doesn't need the second. He knows how Nick's mind works.

He knows that the other agents and this new team he's helped to build probably think it's funny, and a little ridiculous, the stoic, seasoned government agent with stars in his eyes, tongue-tied over a superhero, and they'd probably laugh to see him so maudlin about the destruction of a handful of trading cards. Some of them would probably see it as a gross and insensitive overreaction, given the scale of the damage Loki's reign of terror has caused.

It probably is. But that doesn't make his heart ache any less as he gingerly shuffles through the stained slips of cardboard, arranging and rearranging them in his hands.

The cards are rare, and they're -- they _were_ \-- in good condition, and that made them worth some money. But the value they've lost has nothing to do with dollars and cents.

The first, Cap punching Hitler, was a gift from his grandfather on Phil's fifth birthday, given with a smile and a rough hand through Phil's hair. His mother's father, the admiral, as tall and strong and brave as Captain America himself, cut down by a thunderclap coronary before Phil turned six.

The second, Cap and the Howling Commandos, was the very first thing he'd bought for himself with money earned by his own hands, the year he turned fifteen, a hot summer full of mowed lawns and thrown newspapers and babysitting the neighbors' bratty kids. He'd felt such a rush of pride as he'd carefully tucked it into its plastic sleeve.

The third, Cap and his shield, noble and heroic and practically invincible, was a Christmas gift from his father in Phil's freshman year of college. Phil had spent Christmas Eve morning breaking up with his high school girlfriend, and the evening coming out to his parents and his siblings in the most terrifying conversation of his entire life. Christmas morning, his father had smiled as he'd handed Phil the card, before pulling him into the tightest hug they'd ever shared, a hug that said _You're my son_ and _I love you_ and _Nothing will ever change that_.

The fourth card shows Cap and Sergeant Bucky Barnes facing off against a squadron of HYDRA goons. There had been some downtime during a mission in Nairobi, about seven months before Mjölnir and Thor first fell to Earth. Phil had been reviewing surveillance reports in the safe house when Clint had slipped in and nonchalantly tossed the card on the coffee table. Phil had sputtered speechlessly in delighted amazement, Clint laughing as he'd described wandering the marketplace and finding it in a box of bent and dusty baseball cards, a $400 card marked at $5 and bartered down to $2.50. Then Clint had stopped laughing, eyes dark, dust in his hair, using Phil's proffered handshake to reel him in, to pull him close and wrap those amazing arms around him, chapped lips dry and warm against Phil's, and then there was nothing but desire and heat and a wish long suppressed, suddenly granted, nothing to do with the forgotten card on the table.

Phil closes his eyes and rests his head against the pillows, stomach roiling with anger and grief. His fingers stroke gently against the warped cardboard of the irreparably sullied star on Cap's chest.

The cards have been precious memories he has protected and cherished, and now they're just trash. He might know how Nick's mind works, but that doesn't mean there won't always be a part of Phil that hates him for what he's done.

The door suddenly opens and his head jerks up. He hisses in pain at the sudden movement, trying to hide it with a smile as Clint pokes his head in.

"Up for some company?"

"Your company? Always."

Clint comes in and Phil awkwardly tosses the cards toward the bedside table with his good arm, trying not to wince as a couple of them slide off and hit the floor.

"Hey, careful," Clint says as he stoops to pick up the ones that fell.

"What does it matter? It's not like they're going to get any more damaged."

Clint shakes his head in exasperation as he carefully sits on the edge of the bed and brushes his lips against Phil's. "I meant be careful with you, you idiot. Don't hurt yourself."

"The Asgardian contingent get off okay?"

"Mmm. Good fucking riddance. The others have scattered for a while, Fury's recommendation. He told me to go too. He's lucky I didn't deck him for it."

"Clint -- "

Clint leans down until he's nose to nose with Phil. "Not a chance. I am not leaving you here, Phil, to go off and hide somewhere, so put it out of your mind."

He smiles then, before Phil can respond, and it's the mocking curve of self-deprecation that Phil always hates to see. "Besides, I'm just an unknown mook with a bow. Nobody cares about me."

"Hey." Phil carefully butts Clint's chin with his nose. "I care very much about the mook with the bow."

Clint's smile softens and he presses a kiss to the tip of Phil's nose. "Love you too, babe."

The archer's expression darkens again as he looks down at the cards in his hands, fingers rubbing over the stained star on Cap's chest, exactly where Phil's fingers were just moments ago.

"I could kill him, just for this."

Phil covers Clint's hand with his own, stilling the angry movement. "They're just cards, Clint. It's not that big a deal."

"Yeah, no. He _lied_ to the others about you dying, ordered Natasha not to tell me anything, and destroyed something important to you in a stupid, showy gesture. It would have been a bastard move if they'd actually _been_ in your pocket, Phil, but he broke into your locker to take them, pulled them out of their protective sleeves, and then smeared God knows what on them, because that is not blood. I don't even know if the fact that it's _not_ blood makes it better or worse!"

Clint's sudden burst of snarling anger surprises Phil into some much needed clarity. Nick may have taken his cards from him, but he hasn't touched the memories. He can't. Phil will never forget his grandfather's calloused hand in his hair, that first adolescent rush of pride and accomplishment, the way his father rubbed his back, the shock of Clint's lips against his own. The memories are _his_ , and always will be.

He curls his fingers around Clint's and squeezes. "Bigger picture. I'm alive and you're here with me."

Clint sighs shakily at the reminder of how things could have so easily gone, his anger slowly dissipating as rests his cheek against Phil's hair. "Yeah, true, and don't think I don't appreciate just what a damn miracle that is. But I know how important these cards are to you, Phil. You don't have to pretend, you don't have to try to laugh it off, not with me."

Suddenly exhausted, Phil blinks back tears of relief and love and gratitude and leans against Clint, smiling tiredly as he feels the other man's lips brush his hair. His fellow agents and the other Avengers can think whatever they want. Phil doesn't give a damn. This man understands him like no one ever has, and they are so _very_ lucky not to have been taken from each other. That means so much more than any set of cards.

He might no longer have a near-mint, vintage set of Captain America trading cards, but he has the memories that came with them, and he has Clint, and he's alive. Everything's just fine.

That doesn't mean he's not going to rebuild his set to mint and expense the whole damn thing to SHIELD.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, so, I'm kind of a lot pissed at Fury. That was a dick move, melodramatic and unnecessary, and disrespectful to everyone involved, because of course Phil didn't die.
> 
> The strange thing is, this was meant to be an angsty Phil ficlet, and then Clint suddenly showed up, and everything got better.


End file.
